Damien's feet were stuck to the floor, inhibiting his movement from the serene light of the full moon dipping in the window. The stone walls whistled as the wind from outside stirred clouds across the distant ridge line of hills. They moved slowly like the trains he remembered playing with when he was younger and for a moment he lost his attention to the rapture of the memory; his mother sitting down with him connecting a small wooden track together, his father helping him rove the trains to destinations budding in his youthful mind. It left as quickly as it had come, deserting him in a desolate state of existence that he had never asked for nor truly wanted. What he did want had been taken from him, yet the scent of ghost still haunted him. The face that came to him was one he hadn't counted on ever seeing again.

Damien looked back to his arm, flexing his muscles that were now integrated with his watch. A constant hum throbbed through his tendons and his fingers felt more alive than he could recall. Objects, fabrics, materials all felt the same, yet subtly different. He could feel everything and nothing at the same time. He rotated his wrist admiring the pattern which, by rhyme or reason, was created from the impact. It seemed created by an artist's hand and, come to think of it, he recalled that Greyfaust indulged his artistic tendencies quite often.

What a way to display your artistry, quipped Damien mentally.

He turned his hand towards a wall with his palm splayed open. His eyes closed and when he opened them he found himself on the opposite side of the room.

"You don't have to hold your palm out you know," said Gerard with a smirk.

"Oh, don't worry," replied Damien. "It was only for dramatic effect."

Gerard chuckled placing some food on one of the scarce tables lined against the wall in the training room. It was piping hot and steam vapors invited him over, wafting his stomach into turbulence.

"Nothing fancy," said Gerard.

"I wouldn't expect anything more," touted Damien.

Damien appeared next to where Gerard had placed the evening meal. The old man jumped, startled by the sudden surprise of his colleague only inches away from him, diving into the platter of food.

"It's good to see that your appetite is still intact," said Gerard. "I was concerned the injury, specifically the nerves it lodged into, would not allow you to keep any food down and you'd wilt away until you died."

Damien stopped eating, turning to Gerard with bits of delicious morsels still clinging to his mouth. Gerard smirked producing a satchel littered with papers spilling out from it, barely containing the mess of scribbles.

"I'm glad you think this is so funny," said Damien pointing to his arm.

"Oh, what's life without a little humor, Damien. Come now."

Gerard began to outline the details of some early experiments to Damien, pointing and tracing across a dozen titles the old man had shown him hundreds of times before. His words were full and robust to start, speaking of integration, manipulation, and complete loss of self, but his words faded as Damien's attention was trapped by a flickering, beeping light at the end of the long hall across from him.

"What's that?" asked Damien, his finger strained towards the blinking source.

Gerard turned and his eyes blew up in shock. The papers and explanations before him were lost and he was sprinting towards the way back up to his study. Damien followed in pursuit curious to know what caused such a stir in his friend. He stammered up the steps, winding their way upwards when he saw Gerard hunched over his desk with his hands on his head.

"This is not good," he stuttered repeatedly.

"Gerard, what's not good?" inquired Damien placing a hand on the old man's shoulder.

"They're calling all travelers back to London," gasped Gerard. "Charles is dead."